We're just objects in space.
Drifting through the dark,
We dare to dream,
Devoid of direction,
But desperate for design.
We constantly come into contact
With other creatures of the
Cold, cavernous chasm,
Careful not to crash into most.
These show in different
Shapes and shifts, and,
Though surely don't share all themselves,
Yet shed some shorn-off shells.
Many make their mark
By streaming merrily along,
Meriting marvel, and moving us
To meditate on more than mere existence.
A relative few fly by,
And in their fashion,
Free some fragments of themselves,
Forcing us to feel them forever.
Periodically, however,
Perhaps predictably,
A passerby will pique our interest.
Perhaps we'll play a little while.
We swing about each other,
Sailing so close,
Serving sideways in a
Swirling storm.
But now we wonder:
Would it be wise
To lose our wits and WHAM!
We whisk away as one.
